Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Daddy to the Rescue!

  Apparently there’s been some snafu at the airport with Alex Trebek, and I’ve been assigned to pick up the championship Scrabble ring from the jewelers. Although by all rights the ring should be mine, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Lydia Pinkus, the cheating gasbag, will be wearing it on her pudgy little finger.

  All I can say is it’s a lucky thing for your mom that I can be counted on in times of crisis.

  Love ’n’ stuff from

  Your can-do

  DaddyO

  TAMPA TRIBUNE

  Alex Trebek Attacked by

  Local Tampa Vistas Man

  The annual Tampa Vistas Scrabble Championship Awards Luncheon was disrupted today when internationally famed game show host Alex Trebek was tackled by local Tampa Vistas resident, Hank Austen.

  “I was just about to eat my beef bourguignon,” Trebek said, “when this crazy man came out of nowhere and grabbed me by the chest.”

  Mr. Austen claimed he was giving Mr. Trebek the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge a fourteen-karat gold ring he thought the game show host had ingested.

  When asked to comment about the incident, Lydia Pinkus, Tampa Vistas Homeowners’ Association president and incumbent Scrabble champion, said of Mr. Austen,

  “The man is certifiable. Why, just last week, he was caught looting my garbage can in his underwear.”

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: I’m So Mad, I Could Spit!

  I sent your father off on a simple errand to pick up a ring, and he wound up attacking Alex Trebek!

  And PS! He had the gall to show up at the luncheon in those hideous Bermuda shorts!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: I Can Explain Everything!

  Dearest Lambchop—

  I suppose your mom sent you that clipping from the Tampa Tribune. I know it doesn’t look good, but I can explain everything.

  Just as instructed, I went to the jewelers and picked up the ring. At first I wasn’t even going to look at it, a cruel reminder of how close I’d come to winning the tournament. But once I got out in the parking lot, I couldn’t resist. I opened the jewelry box, and there it was, winking up at me in all its fourteen-karat gold glory.

  I kept thinking that if Lydia hadn’t pulled that stunt and hid my Lucky Thinking Cap, the ring might very well have been mine. And before I knew what I was doing, I’d slipped the ring out of the box and on my pinkie finger. A perfect fit! I drove home, admiring it all the way.

  But when I got home and tried to take it off, things started going haywire. I guess my pinkie must have swelled on the ride home, because I couldn’t get the darn thing off!

  I raced in the house (luckily your mom had already left for the clubhouse) and ran my pinkie under cold water. The ring still wouldn’t budge. I tried loosening it with butter, olive oil, and finally WD-40. Still nothing!

  A lesser man would have panicked. But not your daddy. Cool and collected. I did the only sensible thing and called 911. Would you believe they actually giggled and told me they had better things to do than remove championship Scrabble rings from pinkies? Really, as soon as this whole ruckus dies down, I intend to write a letter to the mayor about those 911 people.

  Anyhow, by the time I got to the clubhouse, I was forty-five minutes late. Most people had already served themselves from the buffet and were tucking into their chow.

  Needless to say, your mom was a tad peeved when she saw me, wondering what had taken me so long. Hiding my “ring” hand in my pocket, I mumbled something about traffic being a bear and handed her the jewelry box, which I’d cleverly tied with a bow so she wouldn’t open it. Luckily she didn’t seem to notice how light it was and, after shooting me one final dirty look, scurried off to put it on the awards dais.

  I was standing there with my hand jammed in my pocket, pinkie hidden, wondering how the heck I was going to get the ring off my finger, when I looked over at the buffet table and saw a vat of creamy white ranch dressing near the salads. Hoping the oil in the dressing might do the trick, I casually sauntered over and—after checking to make sure no one was watching—plunged my pinkie into the goo and began rubbing it into my finger.

  Eureka! The dressing was working its magic, and at long last the ring was coming loose! But my hands were so darn slick from the dressing, I lost my grip on the ring and watched in disbelief as it flew across the buffet table and landed plop in the beef bourguignon!

  And it was at that very moment that Alex Trebek came back for seconds on the beef bourguignon. I gasped as he picked up the ladle and scooped up some stew from the exact same spot where the ring had landed!

  I couldn’t possibly let him eat it! So I started racing to his side. But just then a busboy showed up with refills for the scalloped potatoes and blocked my path. Before I could stop him, Trebek had scooped up the beef bourguignon and was headed for his table.

  I tore after him but was unfortunately intercepted by your mom who’d peeked inside the jewelry box and discovered that the ring was missing. With no time for explanations, I hurried to Trebek, who by now was digging into his beef bourguignon. He took one bite and started coughing.

  Oh, no! He’d swallowed the ring! So what else could I do but yank him up from his seat and give him the Heimlich maneuver? (Which I’d fortunately learned from a Simpsons episode where Homer almost chokes on a pork rind.)

  But just as I was squeezing Alex’s ribs and mentioning my prowess in the categories of Geography, Fifties Music, and People in the News, I heard somebody on the other side of the room shout out, “What’s this ring doing in my beef bourguignon?”

  Obviously, I’d made a mistake. Alex hadn’t swallowed the ring, after all. Someone else had dished it out instead. In no time, I retrieved it, and after your mom washed it off in the ladies’ room, the ring was as good as new.

  A win-win situation as far as I’m concerned.

  I don’t see why everyone is making such a big fuss.

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  DaddyO

  P.S. Alex was so understanding. After I explained to him what happened, he promised to send me tickets to watch a studio taping. Too bad he can’t get me into his own show. But I’m sure Wheel of Fortune will be lots of fun.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Monumental Gall!

  Can you believe the nerve of your daddy? After practically cracking poor Alex Trebek’s ribs, he actually had the monumental gall to ask him for tickets to his show! I may never speak to him again.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: In the Doghouse

  Looks like I’m in the doghouse with your mom, Lambchop. She’s giving me the silent treatment. There’s only one way to worm my way back into her good graces. It’s the ultimate sacrifice, but I guess I’m going to have to make it.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Can’t Stay Mad Forever

  Wonderful news, sweetheart! Daddy just threw away those hideous Bermuda shorts. I guess I can’t stay mad at him forever, can I? Well, must run and shower. Daddy’s taking me to Le Chateaubriand for dinner tonight.

  See you soon in L.A.! Can’t wait for a lovely, drama-free vacation.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Don’t Tell Mom

  It was painful, but I had to do it. With heavy heart, I threw those fabulous Bermuda shorts in the garbage. But it was worth it to have your mom speak to me again.

  On a happier note, guess what I just sent away for? A Make-It-Yourself Ukulele Kit! It’ll be perfect for our trip to Hawaii. I can’t wait to put it together and wow the gang at t
he luau!

  Don’t tell Mom, though. I want to surprise her!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  DaddyO

  Chapter 26

  Prozac was at the top of her game the next morning, clawing me awake for her breakfast with her usual gusto, yowling at the top of her lungs.

  Minced mackerel guts, please! With extra guts! And make it snappy!

  Music to my ears.

  I watched her inhale her mackerel guts, thrilled to have my feline chowhound back in action. Then, still in a rosy glow, I settled down on my sofa with my coffee and CRB and checked my cell phone messages.

  Acck! I gulped in dismay to see five texts from Arnold, begging me to go out with him, each signed with a throbbing emoticon heart.

  And if that wasn’t enough to put a dent in my morning, there were the e-mails from my parents. Can you believe Daddy tackling Alex Trebek and giving him the Heimlich maneuver?

  Rest assured he would not be playing Final Jeopardy any time soon.

  But I couldn’t worry about Daddy (or his plans to serenade the people of Maui with his handmade ukulele), not when I still had a murder to solve.

  I thought about that multimillion-dollar cat toy deal Artie told me about, and once again I wondered if Linda bumped off Dean to ace him out of the profits.

  But had the deal really taken place?

  I couldn’t very well ask Linda. Not without admitting I suspected her of killing her hubby.

  Then I thought of someone I could ask: the Pink Panther. She and Dean had been more than just business associates. Way more. Surely he would have told her about any deal in the works.

  “Ms. Austen!” she cried when I called to make an appointment to see her. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. So what did your editor say? Did she like the pictures of Desiree?”

  Foo. Another lie come back to bite me in the fanny. Those of you “A” students out there will no doubt remember my whopper about Cat Fancy magazine wanting Desiree for their first ever centerfold. I really had to nip this fairy tale in the bud and tell her that my fictitious editor had decided not to go with a centerfold, after all.

  “Desiree and I have been so excited!” the Panther gushed. “This centerfold has been such a ray of sunshine in our lives after the trauma of Dean’s death.”

  Cripes. I couldn’t very well stomp on her ray of sunshine, could I?

  “My editor loved the pictures,” I said, plowing ahead with my lie.

  “That’s marvelous. I’ve been going through Desiree’s photo albums and found some adorable snapshots you may want to use in addition to the centerfold. Why don’t you stop by, and I’ll show them to you?”

  And so later that morning I found myself being ushered into the Panther’s palatial bedroom by her maid, Sofia.

  The Panther, clad in white capris and a slouchy pink cashmere tunic, was gazing fondly at a bunch of photos spread out on her satin duvet. Lounging alongside the pictures were her German shepherds, Tristan and Isolde, and of course, the would-be centerfold, Desiree.

  “How lovely to see you,” the Panther said, offering me a perfectly manicured hand and almost blinding me with a honker pink sapphire ring. “And thank you again for making this centerfold possible. It’s given me something positive to focus on, and I’m very grateful.”

  From beneath their Botoxed brows, her eyes did indeed shine with gratitude.

  By now I was feeling so guilty, I was actually considering writing Cat Fancy and pitching Desiree for a story.

  I oohed and aahed as the Panther showed me pictures of her beloved furball—frolicking with a Cartier necklace, sleeping on a pink satin pillow, and curled around a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  Finally, when I’d oohed my last ooh and aahed my last aah, she swept the photos up in a manila envelope for me to show to my “editor.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything new about Dean’s murder,” she said, handing me the envelope.

  Just the opening I’d been looking for!

  “Actually, I heard a rumor that shortly before Dean died, he and Linda had signed a multimillion-dollar cat toy deal. And I was wondering if Linda might have killed Dean to keep all the money for herself.”

  “Linda?” She blinked in surprise. “I doubt she’d have the nerve. She seems too weak to be a killer.”

  “Appearances are deceptive,” I said.

  “I guess they can be,” she agreed.

  “So do you know anything about the cat toy deal? Was it true? Or just a rumor?”

  “Dean had been bragging about it to me. But that doesn’t mean it was true. Dean was a wonderful man,” she said, her eyes growing soft at his memory. “So charming, so charismatic. But he often exaggerated things to build himself up. Maybe he had a deal. Maybe he didn’t. With Dean,” she shrugged, “you never knew.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more help,” she said when she saw the disappointed look on my face.

  Then her eyes lit up. “But I know who’d have an answer for you. Dean’s attorney. I’ve got his phone number in my office downstairs. Wait here while I get it. You can play with Tristan and Isolde while I’m gone.”

  At the mention of their names, the two hulking dogs woke up from where they’d been snoozing on the duvet and began growling.

  “Tristan! Isolde! Be nice to Ms. Austen. No biting,” she added, wagging a stern finger at them.

  And off she skipped, leaving me alone with her canine mafiosi. Who continued growling most menacingly, throwing in some fang-baring for good measure. I spent a terrified second or two before they finally decided I wasn’t worth noshing on and resumed their snooze.

  Glancing around the room, my eyes were immediately drawn to the Panther’s huge walk-in closet. Unable to resist the urge to snoop, I tiptoed inside.

  Unlike my closet at home, with clothing jumbled together like remnants at a yard sale, the Panther’s closet had been organized to within an inch of its life.

  Dresses, skirts, slacks, blouses were in separate sections, all standing at attention on couture wooden hangers, not one item of clothing touching another. There were shelves for shoes, cubbyholes for handbags, and everywhere I looked, I saw different shades of pink. A locked door in the corner led to what I assumed was either a panic room or a small bank vault.

  And in the center of it all was a ginormous jewelry case, stocked with such fabulous doodads, I felt like I’d wandered into a branch of Tiffany’s. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of gold and diamonds and pink sapphires sat under lock and key. On top of the glass case were the Panther’s costume jewelry pieces, stuff she felt safe leaving out on display.

  I was gazing down at the Panther’s honker rings when I noticed a ring on top of the case that looked familiar. An eye-catching piece of bling with pink stones set in the shape of a flower.

  Yikes. It was the pink hibiscus ring Nikki was wearing the day of the shoot! The one that went missing when she left it to get a snack at the buffet table. I picked it up and examined it. No doubt about it. It was the exact same ring. What on earth was it doing here in the Panther’s closet?

  There could be only one explanation. The Panther must have stolen it the day of the murder, when Nikki left the cat food unattended.

  Was the Pink Panther the one who sprayed the Skinny Kitty with Raid? But why? She was one of the few people who actually liked Dean. Why on earth would she want to kill him?

  And then I looked up and understood everything.

  There, in the doorway, was the Pink Panther. And she wasn’t alone. Standing at her side was Linda, a gun in her hand. A gun aimed most distressingly at my heart.

  I’d been so engrossed in my snooping, I hadn’t heard them coming.

  Now I looked at the two of them standing side by side and realized I’d been right about Linda. She’d grown tired of Dean’s cheating ways and found a new partner. But it wasn’t Zeke she’d fallen for. It was the Panther.

  All along the two of them pretended to be enemies while they plotted t
o kill Dean and cash in on his multimillion-dollar cat toy deal.

  “I had a feeling you’d be trouble,” Linda said, eyes like steel behind her harlequin glasses. “You really should have minded your own business. I tried to warn you with that Raid ad. But did you listen? Noooo.”

  Now she was aiming the gun at my gut.

  “And it wasn’t very smart fibbing to me about Cat Fancy,” the Panther piped up. “I called them the minute you left the house the other day. They’d never heard of you.”

  Here I thought I was putting one over on her, and she was the one setting a trap for me. She’d undoubtedly lured me over to her house today to find out how much dirt I’d dug up about Dean’s murder.